Tempering Justice
by WritingByNight
Summary: Justice said he disapproved of the obsession with Hawke. He did not say he disliked her - A Justice/F!Hawke/Anders OT3
1. Amaranthine

This world is very beautiful. Like the amaranth plant for which the city was named, the splendor on this side of the Veil seems unfading and everlasting. A land of no absolutes, and full of intriguing contradictions, Justice would be content to watch it, ever in wonder, with all the confusion and curiosity of a newborn child. But Kristoff's body rots, slowly, growing more rank by the day, and like most mortals, Justice soon learns of what limitations come with a physical form.

Perhaps that is part of why he proposes it, though his offer to the healer is primarily out of genuine friendship. Too much injustice has been dealt to mages, their noble plight going unheeded for so long rankling at his being, and the Howe son is right: Together, they could accomplish what one could not do alone. Yet underneath it all, buried deeply beneath his purpose, there is also this sense of... self preservation. Life, it seems, is addicting; it becomes easy to understand why mortals do not wish to give it up.

Justice offers his strength in Anders' struggle; Anders offers a way for him to remain in this world.

Neither of them could have predicted this error, however.

Their fusion begins well enough, after the initial disorientation and adjustment to the presence of one another. Justice is even starting to enjoy what a remarkable difference it is between a decaying corpse and a living host - the act of breathing in itself is a marvel - but that Templar guard-dog is standing over them, smugly.

The wellspring of Anders' anger and hatred towards all the offenses brought against him flares up under Rolan's scrutiny, it distorts and supplants all focus, all control.

Have they not proven themselves to be of impeachable character? Did they not stand with the Warden-Commander in defense of the city they've loved so well?

But no, no. A mage is never trusted, a mage is always unknown - **_never allowed his freedom, never allowed his family, barely even allowed his life_** - Burning emotions of wrath wreck and warp him, and mold him anew, until his perspective becomes thoroughly stained. Black and white are not as clear now, with perception sharpened to a knife-point, and the world becomes painted in a patina of _**rage**_.

Justice seethes and surges forward, and there is nothing at all just in the massacre they leave behind in Amaranthine.

* * *

><p>This mortal world was very beautiful, once - Still is, Justice admits, lingering in the shadows of Anders' consciousness as they cross the Waking Sea.<p>

But the pursuit of justice often requires sacrifice, and there is no time or place for beauty in vengeance.


	2. Tranquility

It is Justice who notices them first.

Anxiety over Karl has set them both on edge for differing reasons, but while Anders can throw himself into his clinic for distraction, Justice has no such recourse, free only to watch and wait restlessly, a growing headache that the mage cannot appease.

They are a disheveled group, akin to the same Ferelden refugees that they see day in and day out, save for the dwarf. The two humans, one man and one woman, have a collection of similar features and shared complexion that suggests of blood relation, though with one glaring difference - the feel of the Fade resonates strongly from the woman, echoing fingerprints of lyrium, arcane and spirit magic that sings to Justice, like calling out to like.

An apostate, then, in need of succor? Or a Templar puppet, come to spy?

She watches Anders heal the boy in quiet appreciation, with the curve of a smile. He cannot sense the stain of the Templars on her, but the heavy crossbow and the two-handed sword that her companions bear are threatening enough. Justice gives warning to his host on the nature of their intruders, and as they turn to confront them she holds up her hands in peace.

"We mean you no harm, Messere. I just wish to talk," She wets her lips, the apparent anxiety at the idea of a fight enough proof of her innocence for him. Justice quickly loses interest in the discussion, at least until the mage woman inquires after their former feline companion.

"You... had a cat named Ser Pounce-a-lot?" She asks, with great amusement. "In the Deep Roads?"

Justice stirs, his thoughts loud and grumpy. That noble beast had been a steadfast friend and unflinching warrior; that the Wardens took him away was only further evidence of the Chantry's tightening hold over the Order, thus making them complicit in its oppression. No, there is no purpose for them in the Deep Roads. Their targets are far more dangerous than any common darkspawn. Why, even tonight, the Templar menace puts another mage's freedom in doubt -

"Although," Anders pauses, and suddenly their thoughts fall into harmony. Making pacts seems to have become a habit for them. "A favor for a favor? Does that sound like a fair deal? You help me, I help you?"

"If you help us reach the Deep Roads, yes."

Justice is guarded. She agrees so swiftly; Does she even know to what she swears? Or what, if she truly had the power, they would wish her to do for them? "You don't ask for my terms? What if I were asking for the knight-commander's head on a spike?"

The mage woman chuckles, uneasily. "Well, that would probably solve most of my problems as well, but between you and me, I think she'd kick my ass six ways from Satinalia."

"The Templars are hunting you?"

"Not yet." She sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose, tiredly. "But I'm not certain how much longer I can keep being an apostate right under their eyes. Hence, the preference for darkspawn in unwanted company."

The desire to shelter and support the mage woman blossoms, from both of them, and Anders smiles slightly. "Then perhaps you will understand or even sanction my terms..."

A short conservation later, and the deal is stuck, the mage woman agreeing whole-heartedly to their cause at the account of Karl's predicament. She even avows that she would help all mages in such trouble, and expressed her displeasure for the prisons that were the Circles, but whether she would hold to her words remained to be seen. Justice is unusually quiet as the party takes their leave, reserving judgment of them until the task is done.

* * *

><p>The mage woman - Hawke, she calls herself - corners them as soon as they return to the clinic, insistent.<p>

"That wasn't normal magic you just did, was it?"

"I - this is hard to explain," but Anders does his best. Justice expects her to react poorly, as most mortals do with talk of spirits.

She doesn't. She appraises them with child-like wonder. "You met a spirit of Justice?"

Anders frowns, bewildered as much as Justice by such a calm reaction. "You're - you're not running away screaming... Why are you not running away screaming? Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

"My father, he - he was an apostate as well. He could call spirits from beyond the Veil for aid in healing." She smiles faintly, and Justice understands why she seemed wistful at watching Anders heal. "I always wanted to be like him, but I'm absolute rubbish with creation magic."

"It tends to require a greater amount of discipline... harder to come by outside of the Circle," Anders admits through clenched teeth. "But I'm afraid this is nothing like a spirit healer."

"No?"

"No," and Anders confesses the worst part, of playing mortal host to a spirit, and of his emotions warping his perceptions and purpose. Justice expects her to call them an abomination, or at the least, to call him a demon.

She doesn't. One slim hand flies to her mouth, ice-blue eyes filled with compassion. "I'm so sorry. I... I wish I could help you." She whispers, and Anders smiles in profound relief.

She is a good ally, Justice decides. A trustworthy companion with a kind heart, whose association can only bring further success to their cause.

Yes, Justice agrees. Let them be at her disposal, and for a little while, both spirit and man know something like tranquility, swept up in the force of her wake.


	3. Beauty

Like a thief in the night, the growing attachment they feel towards this Hawke sneaks up slowly. Little things, at first hardly noticeable, and unquestionably outside the realm of Justice's normal concerns.

Justice pays little thought to how Anders always has a smile for this Hawke who waltzes in their clinic for trifling reasons and idle small talk - only to end up staying into the early hours of morning, just as exhausted as Anders, but from helping calm a terrified child or soothe a frantic mother whilst Anders does what he can.

Justice does not understand why she always takes pain to include them, for they do not imbibe in intoxicating drink, whenever her ragtag associates gather at the Hanged Man for Wicked Grace - a game of risk and chance, as he comes to learn, though the odds seem never in their favor.

And when Anders notices, once, before the heat of battle has fully fled their veins, how very beautiful she is with eyes afire and dark hair wild about her flushed face, Justice considers her, completely objective in his assessment - that she, he supposes, does indeed have facial symmetry and figure that mortal men find pleasing, though considerably less... ample than the Rivaini woman - and does not note the import that lies hidden behind such an observation.

Other things, however, begin to break through the spirit's unwavering focus, the water that wears against rock, and during those moments Justice can see again, precious flickers, at that world of beauty still veiled behind the rage.

Justice is pleased that she drags them along in all matters concerning mages that fall to her, and openly seeks their counsel - as if she seems to know how much it means to them, to Justice especially, to be actively fighting against the Chantry's tyranny.

Justice thinks he understands, a little anyway, why she seems to be drawn to them; her father and sister, both gone now, were mages. It is only natural that she would feel most comfortable around others like her, and Justice mistakes the softness in her admiring glances for something else entirely.

And when Anders speaks, once, before the Knight-Captain on the unjustified abuses placed on mages, this Hawke does not balk in her support and declarations, chin raised and hand on their arm - for _yes_, Justice admits, there is indeed something very beautiful in the steel of her resolve - and they do not hesitate to think of her as a friend.

Friend. The word conjures memories of Amaranthine, of those they left behind them in Vigil's Keep. It is oddly comforting to find such a kindred soul in a city saturated in sin.

"I hope I didn't seem too selfish when I told you about Justice," Anders says one evening, as they close the clinic for the night. "I figured a willing host, a friend - "

"Anders, you don't have to convince me of anything," she cuts him off, gently. "I know you meant well - you _and_ Justice. The best thing you can do now is look forward."

"Kind, wise, and beautiful," The unexpected warmth of feeling in those appellations gives Justice pause. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't presume - "

Hawke catches his sleeve, and their attention. "No! Please, presume, ah - " She flushes. "I... I rather like it."

And there is something very beautiful in the way she looks at them, like something out of another's life - Kristoff's life - Justice realizes suddenly, and the consequence of what that might mean sets the spirit into frenzy. His host, too, is in complete agreement.

"No, I shouldn't do this. I don't want to hurt you."

"Because of Justice?"

"That's who I am." Anders sits on a cot, and stares at his hands. "I'll break your heart."

Hawke's face falls, but mercifully she doesn't press. She nods sadly, leaving Justice and Anders feeling a mixture of resignation and regret.

It is for the best, Justice thinks.

They have set themselves on a course for vengeance, and cannot be trusted - they will only break beautiful things.


	4. Deep Roads

Existence falls into old pattern with her absence in the days that follow. For Anders there is the clinic and the mage underground; for Justice there is the restlessness and the rage. It pales in comparison, and they wonder if their blunt rejection has cost them her friendship, until she shows up unexpectedly one morning as they light the lanterns, with a box that exudes all manner of delicious and familiar smells.

"Peace offering," she explains, as Anders realizes just what she has brought them.

"Maker - is that pie?" That wakes Justice's curiosity; the spirit had long grown accustomed to the marvels of food and flavor, especially when one had living taste buds to accurately judge with, and Anders has fond memories concerning pie.

Hawke laughs at Anders' enthusiasm, setting the box down on an impromptu table. "We finally collected the coin needed for Bartrand's venture. I figured that was worth a little celebration. That pleased, huh?"

"Like you can't imagine," he manages, though the words are half-muddled with a mouth full of tasty, flaky apple-baked freedom.

She smiles slightly, and her fingers drum along the wood-grain in anxiety. "Bartrand hopes to leave within the week, and the expedition shouldn't take more than a fortnight at most. Try not to anger the templars too much while I'm gone, please. I don't want to come back to find you in the Gallows."

Justice grasps her words faster than his host, thoughts loud and fretful. She is going into the Deep Roads without a Warden, with no concept of the dangers, she is too good, too pure, a fragile light in this dark place. They cannot forsake her, cannot leave her to die, their cause needs more mages such as her -

"You're going without me?" Anders sputters, almost choking on a bite of pie.

"Yes? I had assumed that - " She trails off, and shakes her head. "You can't leave your patients, and you hate the Deep Roads."

"I hate the idea of you running into Darkspawn more, thank you very much. _No_, Hawke," He persists, as she tries to cut in. "I'll make something work out here - you need me. I'm coming along."

They will be strong enough to resist temptation. Justice is sure of this.

Justice forgets he was sure he could overcome Anders' anger, as well.

* * *

><p>Hawke falls to her knees, hugging her arms in helplessness, as the Grey Warden Stroud leads her afflicted brother away, and the vulnerability of her grief stirs at Kristoff's - Justice's - memories. Aura had wept liked this once, before her husband had left to join the Wardens, paralyzed in the fear and the uncertainty of whether she would ever see him again. The need to protect, to comfort, lances through them, so keen an emotion it cannot be ignored.<p>

"Hawke - " The dwarf starts to move to her, but Anders is already there at her side, one arm curling around her back, hand moving in soothing circles.

"My mother - oh, Maker, how will I tell her this?"

"Your brother's strong," Anders manages, thickly. "He'll make it, Hawke."

"I... I should never have brought him... He - Father. F-father would never - " But whatever her father would think of her actions, Justice does not get to know.

Hawke gives an anguished cry, suddenly turning inward towards them. Her hands seize the feathered pauldrons of Anders' coat to hide her tear-streaked face, an action born of despair and sorrow, but she may as well have branded them with hot iron.

Anders tucks her head gently beneath his chin, unable to suppress the rush of worried affection or hide the pounding of his heart, and as he holds her tight against breaking apart Justice knows that they have somehow stumbled into a more grievous error.


	5. Three Years

It is not an easy three years. The first time since their fusion spirit and man are in continuous disagreement, while around them things in Kirkwall continue to deteriorate.

Justice insists that the best remedy is distance. As it is, she can never be involved with the mage underground; she is becoming a prominent figure, and stands to lose too much should she be overtly implicated with them. She is too good an example of what a mage should be. They cannot sully her.

Anders does not object to these protective measures, all too concerned that the Knight-Commander would take interest in Hawke, but from his steadily increasing thoughts and fantasies it is clear he would rather sully her in more... carnal fashion.

The concept of base desire is not unknown to the spirit, but that was back in the Fade, and solely the province of demons. Anders' growing infatuation with Hawke terrifies and titillates Justice, and Hawke hardly helps matters. The memory of rejection has long faded, and while she never acts on her persistent feelings, she takes no pains to hide them. Somehow, this restraint, this regard to their... unique situation, only makes Anders desire her further.

Justice is at a loss at how to mitigate this mistake, and can find no guidance in Kristoff's memories. Perhaps what forms between Hawke and Anders is more than lustful attraction, perhaps it is more than what it seems, and could blossom into that beautiful force that Kristoff and Aura had. But his former host's path to love was far less complicated, and, in truth, Justice is too afraid to find out the difference.

Purpose has already been corrupted - justice twisted to vengeance - how else would they be distorted if they indulged in amatory distraction? No, it cannot be love. It is folly and dalliance. It must be. It is weakness that comes with mortal flesh, and can only lead to madness and disaster. Justice does not interfere with the crude means that Anders takes to rid himself, if only temporarily, of the longing and the want. It seems the lesser of the evils.

And if Anders should, in fact, truly love her, then it must be at a distance. To do so otherwise would only damn her as well. They must place her on a pedestal, Justice decides, for surely there can be no place beside her.

And in their self-imposed isolation, out of the light of her grace, Justice can feel themselves slowly slipping again. When she is not around to tease them, too often do they let paranoia cloud their judgment, and too often Anders fights a barely won battle for control when the rage in them refuses to subside. The Knight-Commander continues to heap abuses, and they are not doing enough, they are never doing enough. They sit idle, guilty of sloth, as the flames of retribution stifle, threaten to consume them in the course, and Justice is not sure anymore which obsession is worse - Hawke or vengeance.

* * *

><p>It is, consequently, a liberation when Hawke finally manages to draw them out from under the downward burning spiral, begging their help with Feynriel's nightmares. Neither was certain what a journey into the Fade could bring out in them, but she needed guidance in this matter, and it simply feels too freeing to aid her again to balk.<p>

Wryme howls in defeat, the death-blow struck from Hawke, a timely spirit bolt, and the impact of the Pride Demon hitting the floor shakes the tenuous ground of the Fade. Hawke staggers, and Justice carefully clasps underneath her arm, steadying her back to her feet. She stares at him owlishly; surprised but not displeased. "...Thank you."

Justice nods, and releases her. "You did well to resist the guile of demons, mortal. The same could not be said of your companions. It would be wise to rethink your confidence in them, as they have proven weak." The Rivaini had been no shock, and the Beast had been all too vindicating.

She huffs a weak laugh. "Well, not everyone can aspire to an ideal, and have your constant vigilance, spirit."

"They betrayed you." Justice snaps, the light flaring in his eyes, and Hawke recoils slightly. "They misused your faith in them, and you would grant them clemency?"

"I thought justice was to be tempered with mercy - " She trails off, and doesn't say the obvious; that he is not always justice and vengeance knows no mercy. Her lips set into a frown, and she sighs. "Honestly, it's probably my fault. They're not used to being constantly on guard here - they're not mages."

"You are not responsible for their deficiencies."

"Then you've a rather limited concept of friendship." Hawke retorts tiredly, turning to go, and Justice cannot help it, his curiosity compels.

"Mortal - wait." Justice calls, and she halts, arching one brow cautiously. "I... do not understand. I wish to correct this."

Hawke wets her lips, an action Justice has come to realize represents anxiety. He makes her uncomfortable, and that thought gives him pain. "You think this is really the time?"

"I do not sense any remaining demonic intrusions - Feynriel's safety is assured, and time has no meaning here. You know this."

She hesitates, eyes softly looking over Anders' features, becoming inscrutable as she meets the blue fire in his eyes. "Why do you think I avoided bringing Merrill? She's a mage, as well, certainly no stranger to the Fade."

"She is a danger. She has trucked with demons before," Justice snarls, recalling the naivety of the elvhen blood mage. "All for the sake of power. She - "

"Would have been surely tempted, yes." Hawke interrupts the diatribe, quietly. "And she would have hated herself forever because of it. I care about her too much to put her in that position - here, at least they can blame me, and not themselves for their failings."

Friendship requires selfless sacrifice; the truth of that statement seems straightforward when put so plain. "There are many responsibilities, then." Justice hazards, wondering at the depths of her grace. If she were to host a spirit of Compassion, Justice would likely know not the difference. No small wonder, then, that Anders has such fond feelings for her - she would save them from themselves.

"Why not? It's just a form of love, after all," Her face grows distant at her mention of love, hurt evident, and it is unmistakable. She loves them. No, she loves Anders, who is flesh and blood and mortal, not intangible. Not an ideal.

"Some actions are unforgivable," Justice rumbles plaintively, thinking on what they have done - and what they might do.

"Some actions are," She shrugs, evasively, and offers a smile. "But not today. On the bright side, maybe Isabela will now forgive me for that time I threw up all over her boots... Oh, even better! Fenris could shut up about how easily mages give in to demons. Maker - that'd be something, wouldn't it? Too much to hope for, I'd imagine..." Hawke chuckles to herself, turning to head back down the corridors of Feynriel's dream.

Justice falls in beside her.


	6. Dissent

Days later, and the mage underground sends word, enlightenment on the increasing numbers of Tranquil in the Gallows, and rumors of Ser Alrik's Solution. The unadulterated evil in such a plot gnaws like an cantankerous wound, but it is the right moment to strike, what they have been waiting for all these years, ever impatiently. Truth shall will out, sweeping forth justice, and it will be _enough_ - it has to be enough - to bring the revolution, so that they might know something like freedom again.

"Come with me, please," Anders asks, desperately needing her support in this, that not only might they have success, but so that he need not fear that they capture _her_ while away.

"Anders, I'd help you in anything," she smiles beatifically, and they do not deserve it, Justice thinks, they're never earned such devotion from her - this one bright light in Kirkwall.

They waste no time, fighting past thieves and smugglers, until they are there, at the end of the tunnel with the whispers of the templars around the bend. Hawke gives them an encouraging glance, readying herself for inevitable combat as their party draws up behind the templars, menacing a terrified mage girl.

"I just wanted to see my mom," She pleads, eyes darting wildly like a rabbit, looking for escape. "No one ever told her where they were taking me."

Anders is enraged instantly by the sight, his thoughts scour control. Justice catches images of Anders as a boy, dragged away to the Circle to the sound of a mother's lament, for a child she'd not see again, and the blood is rising in them, the storm rising in them - Anders clenches his jaw, struggling with himself to try and calm his anger as the spirit hungers to seek recompense for these wrongs. "No, no, this is their place. We cannot - "

The mage girl falls to her knees. "Please, no. Don't make me Tranquil. I'll do anything."

"That's right," Ser Alrick speaks, with a sadistically suggestive smirk. Is it not enough that these tyrants server the mind, but they would also defile the body? "Once you're Tranquil you'll do anything I ask."

Justice fumes, staff in their hand, _when did it get in their hand?_ Hawke shrieking, "Get away from her, you sick bastards!" and they would execute this crime against every mage - they'd even enact it on _her_. Hate and fear and righteous love crackles through him, igniting reason, and Justice is lost amongst the flames.

"**You fiends with never touch a mage again.**" Vengeance intones, his statement judge, jury, and executioner.

The situation descends into delicious chaos, in the splatter of their blood and their cries of horror. They put them down swiftly - rabid animals must always be put down, but too soon the battle is over, and the rage is not satisfied. It cannot be sated, for vengeance has no more quenching effect on emotions than salt water has on thirst, and they will all die, they will have every last templar.

"Get away from me, demon!" The mage girl shrinks in on herself.

"**I am no demon!**" Vengeance sneers, although in this state he could not tell the difference between himself and the meanest of Rage Demons.

Hawke draws in beside them, cautiously. "Spirit - that girl is a mage."

"**She is theirs. I can feel their hold on her,**" and she _is_, her overwhelming fear of the templars holds her fast, yet that isn't the same thing. He cannot think in this state, cannot reason or remember his purpose or recall his true name.

But Hawke is still there, unfazed and unafraid, her eyes comfort, and cool with insistence. "Justice," she entreats softly. "She's the reason why you're fighting."

And it hurts. It hurts to be like this, doused by her eyes and her words like cold water tossed frantically onto the pyre. The rage steams, howling - _They cannot let her bear this blame, they care too much about her for that_ - one form of selfishness replaces the other, and they are shocked out of madness with a sizzle of lightening.

Anders manages to take back control, falling to his knees. "Maker - no... I almost - if you weren't here..." She sinks beside them, hands reaching to hold their face, and the tenderness in that gesture hurts worse than any insult or call of 'demon'.

They are monstrous, they are vile. They flee.

* * *

><p>It takes her no time to catch up to them, Anders sorting through heaps of refuse that marks what passes for their life here; action spurned by impulse, for there is no place for them to escape. The rage would find them, seize them again, and everything that they have worked for - everything, even themselves - would be lost. Good intent has not been enough to reverse this perversion, this poisonous corruption. The mage girl was an innocent and they almost killed her. They are monstrous; the same as any abomination.<p>

His host's thoughts shift erratically as Hawke tries to calm them, white-hot scrawls against their shared consciousness; strong impressions of self-loathing and deep affection. They would have been lost already had it not been for her.

"How can I fight for the freedom of mages," Anders asks bitterly, noting the hypocrisy of what they have become. "When I am the example of the worst that freedom brings?"

"By making yourself a good example."

"I don't know how," the mage confesses, and nor does Justice. How does one temper vengeance?

"I'm still here, aren't I? Let me help you." Hawke replies with an enigmatic smile, as if she seems to know. With daring, she finds their hand, giving it a friendly squeeze, and almost unravels them with her touch. "We got rid of Ser Alrick, after all - We'll find a way, together."

Anders shuts his eyes briefly to gather the fraying strands of control, fighting the desire to pull her closer, declare himself and drink in her distraction until they drown. He swallows hard, and asks whether the Tranquil Solution even existed.

And though Anders has resisted her in this instance, Justice can feel the change she has wrought. Already Anders' mind seems resolute; He'll give her one last chance to turn and run. Otherwise, he must tell her, at last, the strength of his feelings - he can no longer need her and not be with her.

Justice cannot help but disapprove. It will surely be a disaster. They will only wreck and ruin her, this beautiful creature who would seek to save them from themselves, and that would be the ultimate example of their monstrosity. But, down in the Gallows tunnel, her presence and her grace had been enough to restrain them; their obsession with her had been greater than their one for vengeance.

Justice disapproves - but Justice doesn't say _no_.


	7. Difference

As always between the Fade and this mortal world, Justice is struck by the difference, contradictions that confuse, endear, and frustrate.

This world is static, ordered. He cannot shape it to his will. But it is not wholly unchanging - the spirit fondly remembers that shifting season in Amaranthine, 'winter' the Warden-Commander had called it with an amused smirk, as Justice watched snow fall in childlike wonder - like mortals, no two of them were alike.

Love, too, had been previously prejudiced by what he knew in the Fade. Desire Demons were experts in how to twist love to their whim - love was selfish, it provoked covetousness and envy in men, encouraged weakness. Yet this side of the Veil showed that love could be a _good_ thing; Kristoff and Aura proved this - love was selfless, cultivated friendship and trust, fostered hope.

And there is so much that is different between half-faded resonance and the fresh experience of love.

Hawke murmurs, weakly, "Then _don't_ resist," spiking Anders' pulse in a heartbeat, and Justice is awash in emotion.

Ghost-echoes of Kristoff and Aura could never have prepared the spirit for this - how Anders clasps her cheek to close the distance, taking long draughts from her lips, seeking to slake a thirst but never being fully quenched... or how Hawke clings to the mage, trembling, little pleasurable whimpers and gasps of breath escaping between each kiss.

Wisps of stolen moments are put to shame by the spreading softness that warms pleasantly outward from deep inside - Hawke gently tugging Anders towards the bed, her smile radiant and infectious once Anders settles his weight over her - only to intensify at each layer of clothing that is removed.

Memory is _nothing_ in comparison to this luminescent mortal that writhes and melts beneath Anders, toes curling and lungs breathless, with eyes that beckon and bewitch, fluttering closed in contentment as the mage joins her in completion.

She rests now, head nestled sleepily in the mage's embrace, lulled by the rhythmic rise and fall, and Anders sifts his fingers through her hair, ink spilled out against his chest. Her words are faint and plaintive, "Justice doesn't like me, does he?"

At this, the spirit stirs from the far, lurking corners of their shared mind; he has given her the impression that he dislikes her?

"Not necessarily, although you're a very sensitive subject," Anders hazards. "That worried about his disapproval?"

Hawke shifts upright, and shrugs. "He's still a part of you. He drives your convictions, and that's just one piece of you I love." Her fingers trace the patchwork of scars on Anders' chest, lingering on the knotted mark Ser Rolan left as farewell. "I got to talk to him, you know. When we saved Feynriel."

"I hope my more noble half minded his manners."

Hawke tilts her head in curiosity. "You don't remember?"

"Not really. Justice is too strong there, and since I never need worry about demons anymore, it's too easy to just... slumber. And when I don't - let's just say I don't care for the feeling." Feeling aggrieved, Justice makes his thoughts grumpy. At least Anders _can_ be unaware; Justice never sleeps. His host seems to have noticed the discordant thought, and amends himself, ruefully. "It must be what Justice deals with all the time - being a passenger in someone else's skin."

"He seemed rather agreeable - almost a gentleman. Bit stern, though. At least, in the Fade. Not so much when he's, you know," She gestures one hand vaguely in a way Justice can only assume implies 'horrific.' She doesn't say the word, and instead sighs, shaking her head. "This... can't be an easy experience for him. I just - I sympathize... even if he doesn't care."

Justice feels stunned by her words, then saddened; she thinks he dislikes her.

There are many things in this mortal world that still confound the spirit, but the difference between dislike and disapproval seems clear. She is beautiful and righteous - the paradigm of mage freedom but ultimately when she is near poses nothing but distraction. Even now, Anders seems far too interested in the soft curves of her hips to defend the subtle differences in perspective, and Justice resigns himself to sink back into the far recesses of their subconscious.

Perhaps it is better this way; he is already tempted to find her, as she walks the Fade, to be honest in his high regard for her virtue, but the spirit remembers how she recoiled from his temper, and how anxious he made her seem. No, he must not cross paths with her, though it hurts him to abstain.

For Justice was, after all, the unwanted observer, a phantasmal trespasser into the private world of beauty between Kristoff and Aura - why should his place between Anders and Hawke be any different?


	8. Envy

And they are happy, for a while.

Anders moves into the Hawke Estate, and as much as she distracts them, Justice cannot find legitimate complaint for situation to be otherwise. It is the polite and practical course of action, given the recent Templar patrols into Darktown, and gradually Justice grows accustomed to, even welcomes on occasion, her presence and the myriad little ways she shows her care.

Though Hawke employs an elf-woman, Orana, to care for the daily needs of household management, she always troubles herself to bring the midday meal to them when they are away at the clinic. Always simple fare, for she is not overly skilled in cooking, but healthy and hearty meals nevertheless. "You can't help the mages if you're wasting away," She chides, between feeding Anders bites of cheese with her fingertips, and blushing fiercely whenever the mage would suck suggestively on them in reply.

Soon, her neighbors notice her daily Darktown slumming, and the blond-haired man in such unusual dress that haunts her home. Perfidious harpies, the gossip flies about her scandalous apostate lover, and Justice could not help but admire her valor when Hawke, thoroughly fed up with it all, simply presses Anders up against a Hightown wall and kisses him soundly in full daylight. "Might as well give them something to talk about," she giggles, clearly taking that 'announcing to the world' bit to heart.

And every night, when they work tirelessly on the manifesto, their last recourse to prompt a peaceful revolution, Justice takes unspeakable pleasure to find Hawke's tidy script in the margins - correcting philosophical errors, strengthening old arguments, and adding new suggestions. _Just as justice must be tempered with compassion, freedom must be bound by responsibility - Give mages governance over their own affairs and the task of policing themselves, and they will master themselves better than the Chantry could ever hope to achieve._ A well-put proposal, Justice thinks, with a fondness for Hawke that the spirit recognizes as _his_ emotion, and his alone.

It is such a tenuous state, happiness.

Hawke's mother is murdered, brutally by a madman, during Solace, and Justice did not think a body could hold that many tears. Her body shudders in anguish, as if each harsh breath might be the one that finally kills her, holding onto the mage like a lifeline. Anders takes it all in stride, murmuring his comfort into her hair, and in turn cares for her, healing her slowly in the following months, with equal attention and devotion.

Justices watches restlessly, unable to be anything more than a voyeur in this tender relationship, and feels, again, that ugly, cancerous emotion twist itself around his being.

Envy - the Warden-Commander had once advised on it, when he felt it stirring for what Kristoff and Aura had, "You might envy them, but you aren't taking from them, and therein lies the difference." Wise sentiment when one's host is a dead man, but provides little consolation now - His very presence causes complications; he takes from them security and he takes away ease. Is that not the same thing?

It would not be difficult to appease the envy; Hawke sympathizes, after all, perhaps one day she might smile for him as well - **No.**

Her smiles are not for him, this love is not for him, she gives it to Anders freely, and if he took that too, there would be nothing left of him that was not demonic.

No. He knows his purpose.

It's past time he fulfilled it.


	9. Change

Three years aren't any easier the second time around.

After they nearly killed the mage girl, they withdrew from the underground, fearing too much what would happen should they loose their anger, and Hawke unavailable to restrain them. The risk outweighed reward, though just barely, and the inability to actively pursue his purpose irks Justice, the restlessness and rage stirring once more. It is evident they are unable to master themselves, polluted with emotions and desires; unable to be the leader the mages need when they are no better than an abomination, but soon the course of action has never been more clear.

Battered and bloodied, Hawke stands victorious over the Arishok - then promptly collapsed, Anders racing to her fallen form with the fear knife-sharp in his chest, but she would live, though Justice doubts that this detail will make it into the dwarf's tales of her. Named Champion by the populace, her popularity would protect her from the Knight-Commander, much to their shared relief, as were those she sheltered under her wings. Surely, now, the people of this wretched city could see the _rightness_ in their cause. A free mage, never tempted by demons, never collared by the Chantry to their Circle-prisons, saved them all._ She_ is their leader now, their voice, and needs only speak the right words, _their words_, to change the world - justice can be won with the pen as much as the sword.

They pour themselves, almost manically, into the manifesto, working late hours in compilation, revision, and, once the Knight-Commander takes the Viscount's seat amid flying whispers of her abuses and her madness, adding new accusations as well. Justice's fervor and distemper for the current state of affairs begins to bleed more into his host, souring the mage's normally sunny disposition and humor with increasing frustration and melancholy, causing wild mood swings at times.

Hawke watches and worries, growing uncomfortably accustomed to waking without Anders beside her. Ever their guiding star, though their actions must be causing her great pain, when she speaks on their changed condition it is never in rebuke. She tugs gently on their hand, and quickly silences protest with a kiss. "The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak," She reminds them both, a touch of humor curling her lips. "Just because Justice doesn't sleep, doesn't mean _you_ must follow suit, Anders," and it never fails to coax a smile from the mage, no matter how hard Justice has been driving him.

Their relationship has only grown more poignant in these years, and Justice suspects that, were it not for him, Anders and Hawke would long have married - yet another thing that the spirit takes from them with his intrusion. No wonder envy is the first hallmark of demons; the desire for something beautiful, only with the purpose to break it. But Justice avows to make it right for them - he owes them justice too - that once his purpose is fulfilled they will live happier then they could have ever hoped to be otherwise. With children, perhaps, Justice thinks, remembering Kristoff's want for simple joy of raising children. Once this all was through, Justice would suffer quietly his envy, for them to live happy for the rest of their days.

And, at last, it is finished, it is perfect, it will be _enough_ - it has to be enough - and they present the manifesto to her like a child seeking approval. Hawke takes it with reverent care, barely finished reading the preamble before her radiant smile blooms. She throws her arms around their neck, laughing in delight, Anders lifting her to spin in the joy of it, and even Justice thinks he would smile now, if he could do so. "I'll bring it to her tonight, after the evening Chant." She promises fervently, and drags them back to her bed to properly celebrate.

The Grand Cleric is well-respected, indeed all of Kirkwall praises her compassion. Surely, she will listen to Hawke and their words, and her eyes will be opened - like Hawke, her compassion will be moved into action.

The Circle will be freed from the Knight-Commander's tyranny. Hawke will be made Viscountess. Together, they'll find a way to bring justice to the rest of Thedas.

And, then, perhaps, the three of them can finally be free and happy.

* * *

><p>The gathering storm that hovered in the overhead all day breaks before Hawke arrives home; waiting anxiously in a chair at the blazing hearth, they almost do not hear the low creak of the door over the pounding rain.<p>

Hawke removes her cloak and shakes it out, one arm protectively clutching the manifesto to her chest, and the rustling cloth causes both spirit and man to wake from their thoughts. Anders jumps to his feet, expectant and hopeful, but Hawke seems evasive, unwilling to look at him.

"Well?" Anders asks, prompting impatiently. "What did the Grand Cleric say?"

She crosses to them, holding the bound vellum of all their labors like a talisman, and, Maker love her, she's kept it completely dry the whole way back. Hawke wets her lips, and shakes her head.

"She disagreed with it?" Anders demands, astonished, and staggers Justice with the hot swoosh of disbelief. It severs remaining anchors, surrounds, and subsumes. "But it's perfect! Every reasonable objection was addressed and refuted!"

Hawke makes a sound of sad derision, and the dancing flames alight the lingering raindrops on her cheek, glittering them like tears. "She wouldn't even look at it."

"She - how could she?" Anders whispers, shock and bitterness spreading at the careless dismissal of their painstaking toil, and it feels like falling in a vast abyss.

Justice seethes, the rage swirling around him. Of course she could; age and position have rendered her complacent, ineffective. She is nothing at all like Hawke, all her compassion means nothing without action, not when she turns a blind eye and allows the Knight-Commander more leeway with each passing year.

"Elthina knew it came from you... I mean, it's not like we've been a secret, I imagine all of Kirkwall knows." Hawke finally meet their gaze, and reaches out to hold them. "She said it would only instigate further conflict."

Anders violently shrugs away her hands, struggling to contain his anger. "So you just agreed with her, had tea and biscuits, and went on your merry way?"

"You don't think I didn't try and fight for you? That I haven't been fighting for you all these years?" She retorts quickly, with righteous indignation, running a hand through her hair in desperation. "I _tried_, Anders. I _begged_ her to read it. But she claimed she couldn't take sides - "

Hawke hushes, going very still, and through the haze Justice can see the faint blue glow they emit illuminating her skin. The silence stretches on like years as Anders fights hard, thoughts filled with her and her fear, and it almost isn't enough - they are slipping again, next time she might not be enough, and the rage in Justice doesn't want it to be - but at last, Anders holds them back, slumping visibly in victory.

The glow on her face fades, but the fear remains.

"I'm sorry." Anders breathes weakly, too ashamed with himself to even look at her. "I'm sorry, Marian - you didn't deserve that. I shouldn't stay here - "

The manifesto falls with a thump to the floor, Hawke stepping forward as she throws her arms around them. She trembles as she holds them, but does not cry, and in the vulnerability of the moment, Justice knows what their volatile behavior has done to her. They are killing her. Something must change.

Anders yields at once, returning her embrace, whispering further apologies into her hair. Justice turns from this tender moment, and considers.

Without mercy, justice sharpens to a knife-point, a vengeful force that cuts, but does not heal. But without justice, without taking action on atrocities, compassion loses all meaning - an empty gesture indistinguishable from indifference or folly.

The Grand Cleric does not care.

The sword then, Justice thinks. Apathy is weakness.

These injustices cannot stand, and they must find a new catalyst - something must change.


	10. Sacrifice

Assistance, even given unintentionally, comes from the strangest of sources.

Anders pens missives, all signed anonymously and with no given addressees, but the mage underground will see that they go where needed. They may no longer be active but they still keep informed; the Resolutionists have been particularly bold as of late, even sending raiding parties into the Gallows. The message is short but the meaning clear: _My graceful lady's petition goes unheeded - be ready for when the storm comes._

The First-Enchanter and the Knight-Commander quarrel in the streets, like bickering children, and Justice would have to be blind _and_ deaf to not see how the world has been pushed to the precipice - there is no justice here, and without justice there can be no peace. The only resolution now is vengeance; all-out open war, but as how best to instigate it neither of them quite knows. Orsino is caged, and ultimately, collared. Far too cowardly, like the rest of the Circle, to take the necessary leap; they will only act in self defense. And Hawke - Anders' pen stills in mid-thought, and emotion weakens them both. She could lead them, and like her namesake she'd not only fall but fly. But she wouldn't start the war, not even for them. Neither of them would want her to either - she might hate herself forever because of it, and they care about her too much to put her in that position.

There's a rap at the door that Anders ignores and Bodahn dutifully answers.

"She's out at the Hanged Man with Varric," Anders calls loudly, not even looking from his task.

"I did not come to speak with her," and the distinctive brogue instantly summons Justice's detest. What does the Chantry-apologist want?

Anders smoothly covers the stack of finished letters with a blank sheet, and turns just as the white and gold clad archer is shown into the study. "Well, that would be a first, wouldn't it?" The mage quips, smile ironic. For all his talk of chastity, the Starkhaven heir always seemed smitten with Hawke, though she only ever had eyes for Anders, Justice thinks with a bit of satisfaction.

"Did you ask Hawke to present that sedition of yours to Her Grace?"

"_Marian_ was eager to try and help," the mage counters, the use of Hawke's first name, and the intimacy that it implies, another deliberate barb. "Unlike your precious Grand Cleric. How long will she stand back, doing nothing?"

"Elthina is the only force that can mediate this crisis. Surely, you can see no good can come from playing favorites."

Anders barks a harsh laugh. "Oh, right. Because things are so much better now." There had been two new Tranquil in the Gallows Courtyard this week alone, Justice grumbles.

Vael's lip curls, and he changes his tactic. "You've made no secret of your intent to lead the mages here in revolution," The mage raises his chin to interject, but the archer continues quietly, "And as we have mutual friends - who for some reason don't want you to get hurt - let me tell you this: If you go forward with this revolt, the Chantry will bring its full might to bear. They _will_ kill you."

"Andraste was killed. That doesn't mean she failed," Anders says pointedly.

"Do not compare yourself to Andraste." Vael growls quickly, before calming his aggression. His next words are softer, more plea than demand. "And if you are that determined to destroy yourself, do not drag Hawke down with you."

Anders blanches slightly, and seeing that he has finally made a hit, Vael presses advantage. "Please - for her sake. Abandon this madness, and look to your patients, Anders. You do good works there, that is without question. Her Grace will find a compromise. Trust in that."

Taking their silence as acquiescence, Vael murmurs an "Andraste guide you," with a incline of his head, and takes his leave.

Justice analyzes and pulls the conversation apart. The mages - the world - would need a symbol to rally behind. If not Hawke, why not turn the Chantry's symbols against itself?

Anders closes his tired eyes, rubbing them lightly, and does not disagree.

Martyrdom would do it, Justice notes objectively, and the spirit can feel the tremor that floods his host, standing on the edge of something much too deep, and now suddenly afraid to take the plunge. It might not be justice, but it would be _enough_. More than enough.

Andraste didn't have a choice, comes Anders' frantic thought.

Neither do we, Justice responds.

They had tried to find a better way. But the Chantry will never change from within, that is clear now, and without that there is no compromise. There can be no one in Kirkwall they wouldn't kill to see mages free - not Elthina, not even themselves. The Grey Wardens knew this power, too: in death, sacrifice.

Anders reels from this, but does not refute the spirit's logic. He hides his face in his hands, his thoughts falling desperately to Hawke, and the fierce love that fills the mage's heart cuts through purpose.

He takes this too, the spirit realizes with despair. He plays the demon after all.

And it hurts. It hurts to be like this, torn between love and justice, selfishness and sacrifice. They cannot continue living like this, killing her and killing themselves; it is more than either of them can bear.

She will live, Justice finally thinks, for whatever comfort this can provide his host - his friend. She is beautiful and resilient. They can still save her from themselves.

She will live. But they cannot.

Some things are more important than love.

* * *

><p>All mortals know they must one day die, but the prospect of one's rapidly approaching death is a heavy burden. Anders relies increasingly on the spirit's unfailing strength to get through the day; memories of Vigil's Keep and their damnable curiosity in Dworkin the "Mad's" inventions have scarred two words across the darkness behind Anders' eyes - a lyrium brand of their own design.<p>

They greet the mage at dawn, rising from her bed and her loving arms. Anders watches the sunlight bring a sleepy smile across her face, and moves to smooth her tousled hair, but the words are there - sela petrae and drakestone - in terse rebuke, and fingers curl back in on themselves, guiltily.

They stalk the mage at noon, between the quiet moments at his clinic. Anders nods meekly at the gratitude from another of Kirkwall's abandoned, ushering them gently out, and the words are there - sela petrae and drakestone - cold accusation at a healer and soon to be murderer, and legs barely make it to the refuse bin before the dry heaves start again.

They haunt the mage at night, searing through fits of restless sleep. Anders stares wearily at the cold fireside, until the light pad of her footsteps, the soft touch of her hand, and two other words - "I'm here," she whispers - salvation undeserved, cutting deeper than sela petrae and drakestone ever could, and Justice wonders if she can feel their breaking heart beneath her fingers when Anders draws her hand close to his chest.

Death does not mean the same to Justice as it does to Anders; when executed the spirit will finally be able to cross the Veil, but this thought provides Justice no solace. He will suffer a spiritual death, not a physical one - the exact opposite of what Anders will face when he crosses beyond the Veil to lands unknown - and they are both saying farewell to a world, and people, they have come to love.

I am sorry, Justice consoles, sensing that the strain is becoming too much for his friend to handle. I am sorry. But this is the only way - for mages, for her, for themselves - to be free.

Morbidly, they wonder: Would it be the Knight-Commander to do it, stepping over their corpse before moving on to the Circle? Or would the First-Enchanter be the one, in a useless attempt to save his own skin? And now Justice curses the lack of foresight that comes with vengeance, Anders almost dropping a precious phial of lyrium in horror. No, they realize, the world would make Hawke do it.

Wretchedly, Anders leans against a wall in his clinic, the rough-hewed stone cool against his feverish forehead, not sure if this knowledge is comfort or cruelty - blessing or curse to be killed by one's beloved. Could she go through with it? She must, of course she must, innocents will surely be killed, and Hawke would understand, more than anyone else, the cost of justice. But could she live with herself afterward?

Justice remembers her wisdom from years ago, of the responsibilities that come with love and friendship - Perhaps there's something the spirit can still give to them.

I am the villain here, the demon, Justice declares. She is all that is good and righteous, she _must_ live through this trial. Do what you must to see to that. Make her hate me, that she might not hate you or herself.

So they use her, and deceive her. They still need two ingredients, and a way into the Chantry. The clock is ticking down. Throughout it all Justice watches her storm of emotions - desperate hope and deep uncertainty, and knows that it is working. He will not be forgiven.

"Talk of mages. Give her one final chance to hear what we have suffered." Let it not be said that they have not given enough chances for a peaceful solution. "To pick a side."

"Tell me. Please, tell me, what are you doing?"

"You know I can't, love." The bile rises in Anders' throat, the sorrow and self-hatred locked behind half-smile. "I'm only doing what is necessary."

Hawke shakes her head, barely suppressing a sob, and chokes out. "No, not _you_," She fists her hands in their coat, and the raw pain in her blue eyes pierces through flesh to the spirit within. "What are you doing with him, spirit? What - what are you doing with _me_?"

Neither of them can answer that.

Justice doesn't expect her to understand.


	11. Understanding

Author's Note: _I'm extremely gratified that everyone is liking the story so far - your comments, critiques, and encouragement are always welcomed and appreciated! Since this story is a side-story to The Strongest Force, events in this chapter coincide with that story, including a conversation that for stylistic purposes I deemed unsuitable to reiterate and paraphrase here. If you're curious, the conversation between Justice and Hawke is complete in TSF, and I also urge you to check out art gifts I've received from Mwar and lillian-hime on my profile page._

* * *

><p>It will be over soon, for them anyway, though for everyone else it has only just begun. Their part in her story ends here as a footnote - the fanatic, not the friend - a dark stain on the bright future that she will carve out of a world on fire.<p>

She sides with the mages, as she always has sided with the mages; Justice should feel vindicated, exultant even, to have finally fulfilled his purpose, but it is a pyrrhic victory, and tangs bitterly with loss. It is not justice, the spirit knows, will never be remembered as such, and comes at the sacrifice of beautiful things.

Once the Knight-Commander's guards are felled Anders can no longer bear Hawke's speechless dismay. He has been running away his whole life - from the Circle, from the Wardens - but he will not run now, not from her, and sits, back-turned, awaiting her justice as they watch the magic-imbued rubble drift gently like blood-tinged snow. It is a calm resignation that only the Tranquil must feel, though Justice knows the facade would shatter instantly if Anders looked at her anguished face.

"Did... Justice make you do this?" She whispers, searching to find reason, and Justice urges his friend to take this last opportunity, to pin the blame clearly on him, ensuring protection for the memory of Anders' love. But it seems that in these many years Justice has had too much of a noble influence on the mage.

"No," comes the response, over the din of the spirit's confusion, Anders refusing to run from this as well - friendship does not go in only one direction. "Justice and I are one - I can no more ignore the injustice of the Circle than he."

"Then why couldn't you have just told me?" Hawke's voice cracks with grief. Justice can hear her soft pacing behind them. "I might have understood."

"I wanted to tell you," Anders confesses, guilt for being unable to trust in her overwhelming him. "But what if you stopped me?" Hardly an if: she would have succeeded, Justice admits, knowing how weak they are where she is concerned. "Or worse - what if you wanted to help? I couldn't let that happen."

Hawke ceases pacing, her breathing pained, and it is coming, it is coming. Pulse and breath grow erratic, instinctual actions of self-preservation; a body unwilling to give up the precious gift of life though heart and mind have long bid it good-bye. "The world needs to see this," Anders insists, trying to push her into action, to free them from this agony. "And if I pay for that with my life... then I pay."

A sob hitches slightly in her lungs, and Anders bows his head, bracing himself for the final blow, heart swimming in his throat _I'm so sorry my love please forgive me please forgive yourself_ and she has to do it now, she has to grant them one last mercy, otherwise Justice fears they will break in this terrible silence -

And she does something unexpected.

"Help me defend the mages," and she may as well spin the world on its axis. For Vael is angrily demanding something, Hawke shouting fiercely in return, but all Justice registers is the whirlwind of emotion, an ecstatic soaring that could fly from Anders' chest as he turns to look at her in amazement.

She is being practical, Justice assumes, in quiet reprimand; the spirit notes how she avoids Anders' gaze. She goes to fight the Knight-Commander, and she needs them for their healing. Need is not the same as love; not the same as forgiveness.

But she continues to be perplexing, a woman so full of grace. Whatever emotion that was festering inside her evaporates by the time they reach the Gallows, and she **smiles** - _how could she still smile at them, after everything they've done?_ - accepting Anders' hopeful requests with solemn promises of her own.

Justice does not understand.

She should have martyred them - justice would demand as such, for some actions are unforgivable.

How can love be stronger than justice?

She finds their hand, briefly, with that beautiful steel in her resolve as she glares down the Knight-Captain, and gives it a desperate squeeze.

Justice watches her, bewildered and hesitant, and, reluctantly, yields.

Some actions are unforgivable - but not, it seems, today.

* * *

><p>They leave Kirkwall almost in the same manner as they both arrived, Hawke and Anders fleeing from what was their home by ship, and aboard the Rivaini's acquired vessel, Justice is unusually at ease. The restlessness has vanished, the rage quiet, and Justice wonders if the thinness of the Veil around Kirkwall had any hand in his corruption. The more distance they put from that accursed place, the better.<p>

As Kirkwall becomes a vanishing blemish on the horizon, and Hawke already saying farewell to two of her companions, the Guard-Captain and her Warden brother, Justice still cannot approve Hawke's decision to spare their life. It should have been forfeit; revolutions only eat their heroes, and with this course she only damns herself as well. But she has made this choice out of love, with full knowledge of the consequences, and in hindsight, Justice realizes he should have expected no less of her. He has misjudged her - She truly would stand beside them in anything.

At least some good will come of it, Justice thinks with only the slightest touch of envy for them; it allows Hawke and Anders fleeting time together, to find what happiness they can, before the inevitable day when they are captured or killed.

Hawke releases a long breath, as if she's been holding it underwater, and wilts, sitting on the bed in the Captain's Quarters - the Rivaini had all but shoved them here, in one of her passing, altruistic gestures, for them to Talk.

Anders hovers at the door, his anxiety rousing Justice's interest. "Marian - "

She holds up one hand, stopping that line of conversation. "Don't. Please, I just - I don't need to hear it."

"I don't expect you to understand, love..."

She laughs, bitterly and shaky. "That's the thing - I think I _do_ understand. Most of it, anyway... it was never going to change peacefully, was it? All those years, wasted in pointless attempts to make things better - Maker, you must have thought me completely naive."

Untrue, Justice thinks, unable to stay silent through this, hearing her reproach herself. How they had wanted to believe that they could bring justice with mercy, with her beside them to distract them vengeance. Anders crosses to the bed, sitting gingerly beside her, but still giving her space. "It was never pointless. It meant the world to me - I would have long gone mad without you."

"Stop that," She scowls, scolding without malice. "Just because I forgive you, doesn't mean I'm not still bloody livid at you."

"I deserve it."

"You're an unbelievable bastard."

"A total, total one."

"And that coat is ridiculous."

"Very," Anders agrees seriously, though a smile threatens to creep across in face.

"Oh! And that shit before!" She rounds on him. "Jerking me about with that blighted Tevinter potion!"

Anders winces, but knows they deserve that too. "Justice offered to shoulder your anger... if you needed someone to hate."

Hawke frowns in confusion, quiet for a long moment.

She thinks he dislikes her, Justice recalls. Such considerate behavior from him would be atypical. Her eyes search their face, as if she could disassemble them, and confront the spirit within - to understand the truth of it all, at last.

Finally, she says, "Well, then, Justice is a total bastard, too," and given his perceived, appalling treatment of her, the spirit is inclined to agree.

Tentatively, Anders claps her hand in his. She doesn't withdraw it. "And now?" The mage prompts her, wanting to be certain she's gotten it all off her chest.

She shakes her head, mumbling with affection. "Just hold me, you bastard."

Anders smiles, more than willing to oblige.

* * *

><p>And for a while, Justice thinks that she might recover from what they have done to her. Perhaps, if they were granted more time it might have be enough for Anders to heal her heart properly.<p>

Yet raiders attack them on the Waking Sea, damaging the ship, and they are forced to separate from her companions. As they enter the Tevinter tunnels it quickly becomes apparent to the spirit that all her loss has affected her significantly. She grows increasingly unstable, clinging to Anders, her only link down here in this darkness, and fights to protect him against slaver camps with a keen edge of desperation heretofore never seen.

Both spirit and man worry, relentlessly, Anders doing whatever he can to stem her pain, for what little good it does. Desperation is a terrible feature for any mage; it calls to demons from across the Fade like a beacon, lured by the scent of fear - the promise of weakness. But she is strong, Justice thinks. She has always been strong.

Soon her nightmares begin in earnest, nights she wakes screaming or sobbing, and the demons are hounding her, the demons will find her and claim her. It only takes the slightest crack in the armor; they saw this in the Fade with Feynriel, how easily tore were her companions' loyalties, and Justice knows that they have damaged Hawke, irrevocably.

The demons are hunting her. It cannot happen. It must not.

Anders' thoughts are tongues of flame against their mind, all but begging Justice. Find her. Find her. Save her. I don't care how.

Justice does not hesitate.

For a spirit of the Fade the bond between Anders and Hawke is effortless to follow; Justice's eyes perceive a ribbon of red light looped around their wrist, the finest of filaments extending out into the yawning stretches of the Fade. Like the elvhen blood mage and her ball of twine, all Justice need do is follow the cord to find where Anders' heart resides.

Scenery shifts, for the Fade is ever mutable - the red cord winds through a battlefield strewn with corpses, and a figure stands in the thick of it that causes Justice to pause. Their doppelganger stands before them - Anders and yet not Anders - lying in wait like a spider to catch a fly.

Justice glares, light flaring through their skin. "Begone, fiend!"

Their double looks at them with a pout, and the glamour shimmers, illusion melting to reveal the true form of a Desire Demon underneath. "So _righteous_," she purrs, with honeyed tongue. "The little mortal, little spirit, coming to the rescue."

"I said begone, temptress," Justice summoning his powers here to attempt to banish her, but she dodges skillfully, moving around him.

"Call me Passion," she coos, hands roaming her curves. "Why do you interfere? I only want what you've already taken. Oh! - I can practically _taste_ her sweet heart."

"She is not yours to have."

"I know your desires, too, little spirit." Her form shifts briefly to Hawke, then back again, with a knowing smile. "Beauty and love... how you _want_ these things." Passion draws closer, wetting her lips. "Let me take her, and I will even share her."

Justice snarls, and lashes out in a burst of blue fire. Passion hisses, trying to retract, but Justice presses onward, catching a hand against Passion's throat. "I know my purpose, fiend - she reminds me of it everyday," Justice utters, choking the demon and searing with another shock of flame. Passion shrieks, and twists, but cannot get anyway, as the fire begins to consume her. "I take only what is given to me, and for me, it is enough."

Justice does not yield until Passion is burned to ash, cinders sifting between his fingers.

Soft footsteps come behind him. "Justice?" He hears her call.

He turns. She walks barefooted, in a white dress where her heart bleeds into the fabric. She carries small purple flowers, and does not look angry to see him here.

And the conversation they have is long overdue.

Justice offers understanding to combat Hawke's fears; Hawke offers him a smile, and follows it with a kiss.

It is a most pleasant bargain.


	12. Of Love and Justice

Author's Note: _Justice was such a cool zombie paladin in DA:A. I miss him terribly, and I suppose this story is somehow a way to bridge the gap the two games; after all Justice and Anders distorted and warped each other, and if we get moments of DA:A Anders with his wit... well, where's my moments of DA:A Justice, too? It would certainly explain some of the weirder moments of dialogue Anders tosses out (really, Anders? Ser-Pounce-a-Lot was a 'noble beast'? You're in there Justice, I know it. I'm certain you're the reason Anders lost all his game, too. ) _

_I don't know, really. Largely, this was a mess of philosophical musings on the natures of justice, vengeance, and everything in between - somehow wrapped up in a love story, but if I've made you think differently about Justice, well - that's probably the highest praise I could receive. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it._

* * *

><p>She saves them again, fresh bodies of Vael's men littered about the cave-mouth, when the rage that had been absent since Kirkwall viciously returns. The personal threat to Hawke would not be ignored – the Starkhaven Prince wants her alive and Justice has seen too much evil in this world to not recognize the implications such a fate might carry, especially for a woman. Neither Anders nor Justice seeks to control the anger when it rises in their veins, and demands action, transfiguring them and setting Vengeance loose.<p>

Raging fire burns in their lungs, and the ichor that splatters into their open mouth tastes like rich wine - and some part of them is screaming, flesh and sinew; weakness, limitations of a mortal body that cannot hold together under such pressure it will break they must stop - but it feels _right_ to defend her, there is justice here, too, in saving _protecting_ something beautiful, and they dare they dare they will die -

They whirl, ready for another attack, but it is Hawke's face that swims into view, cutting through as vision fills with blackness. She says things, logic that has no place in wrath, and entreats them to _stop_ with a hand marred by self-infliction. Somewhere behind the rage, Vengeance feels rippled shock; despairing accusation of _blood magic_ - fading and slipping thoughts of Anders, growing weak and hazy, tied more closely to the physical well-being of this body than the spirit.

Bruises blossom along her jaw; she wets her lips in that old anxious habit, smears and must taste her own blood from a torn lip. "**It will never be over! Not 'til all that would oppose us can feel Justice's burn!**" Vengeance howls - like the Beast, they will tear out Vael's beating heart, present it to him as the life leaves his eyes - but this body is dying, dying underneath them, and they cannot leave her alone.

She reaches out towards their chest and tempers vengeance with her touch.

When they wake in her relieved arms, pulled back from unconsciousness, it is to a body riddled with pain, and Anders has never been unhappier to be host to Justice.

* * *

><p>All day the mage's thoughts rebuke him, pushing the spirit to a distance, and creating more of a distinction between the two of them in their mind. Blood magic, I saw her do blood magic. Too late, we have doomed her, she has made a deal with a demon –<p>

For once, Justice doesn't deny the insult.

He is tainted by emotions and desires; he would not even remember his purpose without her. But it was a necessary deal, necessary distraction - together, they will find a way to lead this revolution. Together, they can temper each other.

Instead, the spirit tells Anders that his feelings toward her have changed, and refuses to elaborate when the mage presses why.

It is selfishness, he knows, that causes him to keep the knowledge hidden, but what Hawke had given had been for him and him alone. It was precious, more beautiful than anything else Justice has seen in this world, and envy of Anders and Hawke has made a miser of out him - holding those moments sacred; her smile, her touch, her grace.

In the end, it does not matter that he keeps her kiss a secret; that evening's explanations leads Hawke to fully disclose what passed between them in the Fade.

Justice feels a wave of mixed relief and confusion filter through Anders - freed of the burden that they might have lost Hawke to some other demon - then thoughts, fast and sharp, mingled with amusement and exasperation with understanding now coming crystal clear.

Not the kind to kiss and tell, huh? You sly old dog.

The answering silence from Justice says everything to Anders.

Well, I'm not going to tell her - and Justice swears he can feel a smirk there, as Anders cuts off Hawke's teasing about being jealous with a heated kiss - Took me long enough to confess _my feelings._ You're on your own.

The spirit makes his displeasure known, before retreating to the back to their mind, as per usual whenever Anders and Hawke engage in the more physical aspects of love.

She'll understand - The thoughts come back with a hint of a laugh - And you can thank me later, my friend.

* * *

><p>Anders' thoughts spur the spirit onward that night - the debauched enabler providing whispers of encouragement that become steadily more sleepy and distant the further they progress, until fading out into slumber entirely as Justice follows the red ribbon to the end where it leads - a rather humble looking farmhouse rising out of the Fade, with small purple flowers growing rampant around it. A young man practices relentlessly with a sword, and a garden is maintained at the back, tended by a young woman. Somewhere from inside the house, Justice can hear two, murmuring adults voices - simulacrums of Hawke's parents, he assumes.<p>

Hawke herself sits on the back-porch, ghostly forms of kittens dancing and playing around her feet. Her clothing looks simple; chemise and skirt of rough, homespun fabrics, and her dark hair is longer than Justice has ever seen it, gathered over one shoulder in a braid. She doesn't look up at his approach, but a faint smile flits across her face. "Back again? Careful, spirit - I'll think you're in love with me."

Justices does not know how to respond to that; he evades, and scowls at the familial imposters. "Mortal - these creatures are - "

"Demons. Oh, I know. Nothing but smoke and mirrors. Lies." She turns her face slightly, watching the girl-shade hurry over to her twin, a soft blue glow from her hand as she heals a wrenched ankle, and the light of the Fade catches Hawke's unshed tears. "But it's a nice lie." She swipes briefly at her eyes, and gestures to the space beside her, an invitation to be seated. "You needn't worry about me. I remember the pansies."

"That is not why am I here." Justice sits, though guardedly.

"No?" She scoops a vaporous kitten up, and scratches its ears, "What's got you all grumpy, then?" The kitten bats playfully at one of black feathers on the pauldrons, and Justice glowers at the creature, this little sloth demon in disguise. "I was just teasing, you know, about not telling you if I used blood magic wrongly..."

Anders thinks she would understand; Justice is not so certain. How can love and justice both exist inside him? Love conflicts with purpose, she proved it when she spared their life. "I... would know why you refused to martyr us. Selfishness is not suitable justification. Justice would still demand recompense for the lives that were lost in the Chantry."

"Really, you demand?" Hawke says, with a hint of a humor, giving the kitten a final pat, and places it back down. "At the time, yes, I was selfish." Justice looks away with disappointment, but after a moment of consideration Hawke continues, "Back in Isabela's cabin, I kept rethinking that moment... and it would have been selfish if I killed you as well."

Justice turns back and stares at her, questioning. She boldly reaches out, turning one hand palm up in her own; Anders' heavily callused but long-fingered hand in her slender, smooth one. "These are healer's hands - life-bringing hands. I can't do that. Maker, how I wish I could... How many lives do you think you and Anders have saved, both in and out of that clinic, over the years?"

"I did not think to count them."

"No, I imagine not." She tilts her head, blue eyes needling the spirit. "But there was that little boy, got crushed by a mine cart, and Anders drained himself dry so he could walk again. Or the elf-woman whose baby had turned - had to call on your strength for that one, remember? Otherwise we might have lost mother and child... And when we were fighting Meredith, there was that blow that almost killed Aveline - "

"And the justice in this, mortal?" Justice interrupts, agitated slightly by how she still holds that hand, and the confusion such feelings from it instills.

"There are many lives that you can still save. How could I deprive the world of that?" Hawke chuckles weakly. "It would have been a grave injustice, even if I was initially motivated out of love."

"I... see." Justice responds, thoughts spinning. Facing and suffering the consequences of what they did, forever trying to making up for it - poetic justice, indeed. She understands, after all; moreover, she found a path for both love and justice. This knowledge swirls and surrounds the spirit, but unlike the rage, it soothes, leaving tenderness in its place.

Her thumb traces the lyrium-blue fissures in their palm, moving in small circles - it thrills, it terrifies. "That's not really the reason you came to find me tonight, is it?"

"...No, it is not."

"I was never your enemy," a statement, not a question, as Hawke begins to smile. "You do like me."

Justices hesitates, for he is not Valor to fearlessly soldier forth regardless of whether he fully understands the situation, but she is looking at him the way she looks at Anders, the way Aura looked at Kristoff. At him; for _him_. It overwhelms, and Justice doesn't wish to fight the feeling of being swept away in soft emotion. The spirit nods, at last, confessing, "With inordinate affection."

"Then why - ?"

Justice withdraws their hand in self-reprove, looking away. "I have envied what you and Anders share. This... happiness. I have taken too much already. I could not take this as well. It is wrong to intrude, to impose - "

Hawke makes a slight 'tsk'ing sound, and effectively cuts off the spirit by swiftly reclaiming that hand, squeezing it lightly. "You have been, and always will be, a part of Anders." She whispers, with tremulous insistence. "And I didn't fall in love with individual pieces. There is nothing for you to envy. I give to you both."

And the kiss she gives him now is not like the first she granted him, a beautiful but brief affair, barely more than a brush against lips. Nor is it akin to the ones first given to Anders, hard and hungry things, speaking clearly what their owners long held secret inside them.

Unhurried and gentle, it lingers, her teeth tugging lightly on their lower lip, and punctuating that with another lighter press forward. She could not have been expecting response, yet she coaxes it regardless; memories - from Anders and Kristoff - proffer their suggestions, glimpses of other lives, but these are not _him_, and the only gesture that feels _right_ to the spirit is to carefully hold her cheek.

It appears to have been appropriate; Hawke's eyes shine with delight as she draw back. "No more leaving me out of any further rebellions, all right? I haven't run away screaming yet - I'm still here."

"Yes. Together, mortal."

Her mouth twists with bemusement. "Are you really going to keep calling me that? I have a name, you know."

"It would not feel... right." The spirit flounders, out of his depth and completely in waters unknown. "It would be improper. Anders uses it - it should be his."

"Justice - You've seen me naked more times than I can count," Hawke replies, voice laced with humor. "If you're worried about propriety or boundaries - well, we're already there."

"I will think on it." Justice rumbles, promising nothing. He tentatively wraps an arm around her back, and wonders slightly how it happened. This love tempers the flames of vengeance like cool water, that is clear enough, but the spirit had always been certain that love and justice could not occupy the same space, for love is soft and justice is hard.

And as Hawke snuggles into his stern embrace, crumbling him, the contradiction becomes clear - Water might be fluid, soft, and yielding. But water will slowly wear away rock, which is rigid and cannot yield. Thus, whatever is fluid, soft, and yielding will overcome whatever is rigid and hard. Justice smiles slightly, at another delightful paradox of this mortal plane: what is soft can be strong - love can be stronger than justice.

"Of all the denizens of the Fade I've met," She says, in tones that Justice recognizes as teasing, "You're officially now my favorite."

"Considering the amount of unwanted attention you appear to attract, I doubt that it would be a very long list to judge from." Hawke unexpectedly laughs at this frankness, and Justice finds focus drawn back to the curve of her smile. He hesitates, but curiosity compels. "That token before - it... was not satisfactory, given the standards to which you are accustomed."

She quirks a brow, trying to decode his meaning. "You - want to kiss me again?"

"I do not think it was agreeable for you."

Hawke's radiant smile blooms. "Well, then, let's work on that."

She reaches up to their face, but Justice can feel their delicate link to the Fade fraying, the silver cords that connect body with spirit pulling back. It feels too soon, too quickly does time slip away; he has grown too habituated with the mortal realm and its measured, temporal patterns, he forgets time has always been irrelevant in the Fade, and selfishly wishes it did not have to end. The farmhouse, the flowers, her family fragments and dissolves into mist, evaporating around them, and -

They are back in the hayloft, on hard wooden floor and hay that prickles, irritates flesh; a body that groans lingering complaints of fatigue and hurt with rhythmic, unconscious draw of breath. Disoriented by abruptly leaving the Fade, Justice realizes that he still maintains control over this body; Anders roams, alert and amused in their mind, but does not attempt to re-acquire dominance as Hawke, smirking, shifts herself fully over them, resting pleasantly on top of them to finish what she started.

And it is not like the Fade where the mortal body reactions are removed, where emotion rules all. Nor is it akin to the impressions Justice has felt as passenger in the back of Anders' mind, always muffled and slightly veiled. In full possession, sensation heightens, magnified exponentially and wounds with knife-sharp sweetness.

Their body reflexively inhales, leaving Justice enthralled in the warm smell of her; copper-tangy blood, heady earth, and cool night air, as her slim hands leave soothing trails along their face, across unkempt blond hair. Muscle memory rises to the occasion, prompting Justice to inexpertly hold her at the small of her back as she leans down, surrendering her mouth to theirs, and tastes addictively like lyrium - like shadows and starlight. It is a unique magic all its own, singing out with siren's tongue to Justice, eliciting desires and responses the spirit did not think himself individually capable.

Hawke gasps softly, surprised but not displeased, to find Justice kissing her back, giving and taking in equal measure, with want and need and myriad other desires that the spirit knows to be wrong, and yet feels unspeakably good and _right_.

"You're a quick study," She breathes, worrying at their lower lip again, and shifts her weight. Feeling the full effect she can inspire on this body regardless of who currently fully possesses it, she chuckles with private humor, and at this Justice falters, inexperienced in how to proceed.

"Lady - "

"That's much better than mortal," She murmurs hotly against their jaw, leaving skin shivering in her wake.

"Lady," The spirit persists, Anders pressing heavily, impatiently, in their mind, all too ready to pleasure and plunder this numinous woman who gives herself, has always given herself, recklessly to them and their cause.

Hawke sits up, and her fingers flutter, as if disconnected from her, along the crackles of light up and down their arms, until Justice captures one hand, and brings it to their lips to kiss. She searches their eyes, nods, and understands. "All right, love."

And they _have_ broken her, this beautiful creature - Justices knows this, to his sorrow, the spirit withdrawing whilst Anders dashes forward. She is not the same as she once was; a fragility to her mind, desperation in action, and radiance to her smile reminds the spirit of a shattered mirror... brilliant in all its facets, but still, ultimately, broken.

But while broken things can never be truly fixed properly, not like they once were, perhaps it is enough that they can be mended.

He is more than just his purpose, irrevocably altered by this love as much as the rage, and they will do whatever is necessary to preserve her happiness.

The hands that hold Hawke become practiced and demanding, pulling her down, and reaching between them to sink inside her. Completely accepted by her, Justice no longer seeks to hide in the far darkness of their mind; he hangs in the forefront, marveling and reveling each breathless moan she grants them, and each tender kiss she bestows upon them both. The harmony of emotion that spirit and man share for her intensifies all sensation, until they can bear it no longer, Anders riding out release as she collapses against them.

She stirs first, faced flushed and blood-caked hair damp as she tries to reign in her breathing, and presses her forehead to theirs. "Good morning," She says cheerfully, fingers gently roaming the scratchy, stubble along their jaw.

Anders rumbles a chuckle in return; this body still grumbling with weariness and pain, but these discordant impressions seem softened, soothed and relieved by the flawless contentment that has flooded throughout them. "I'll say, Minx," the mage says, hands skimming over her shoulders, down her back, worshiping her curves.

"Oh no, none of that, Serah. We've no time to indulge in Grey Warden stamina right now," She chides lovingly, pecking a final kiss on their lips, and gingerly climbing off of them. Anders mock-sighs with disappointment, but watches appreciatively as she begins to search for her haphazardly thrown clothing, making a small noise of victory when she manages to recover her smallclothes from a pile of hay near the corner.

"We should find out where we are, figure out where we're going, and - Maker willing - I want to bathe. Two blood-splattered apostates might be a _touch_ conspicuous." She looks back at them, standing with her weight on one hip, body barred in the shuttered grey dawn, smiling slowly. "That sound like a reasonable plan?"

"Marian, your standard idea of a plan is 'Get them.'"

"Always worked thus far." She points out, with only the slightest hint of a pout. Memory seems to strike her, and she winces, ruefully. "Okay, maybe not perfectly but I'm not at fault for Fenris setting up that fight with the Arishok as one-on-one..."

She trails off, scouring for other articles of clothing, and trips slightly over one of her pieces of armor, uttering swears she could only have picked up in the company of the Rivaini. Shaking their head, they rise to their feet, and catch her in their arms as she crosses path. A quick glow of magic heals a stubbed toe, and the following kiss eases her ruffled demeanor. "Love you," Anders breathes against her lips, the spirit echoing the sentiment in their mind.

Hawke watches the blue and brown flickers that shift and dance in the limpid pools of their eyes, and grins impishly with her own humor. "Love you too."

Justice recognizes the homophone of 'too' and 'two,' how appropriate it is for their situation, and Anders smiles for the both of them.

* * *

><p>The rising sun lights their path as they make their way westward; with any luck, they'll stumble across the next hamlet, get their bearings, and go from there. And it might not be perfect plan, a perfect path to justice, but Justice decides it does not need to be - it's enough.<p>

They have their life, her love, and their cause for liberty. What more does a man, or spirit need?

Hawke slips her hand in theirs, nuzzling into the soft feathers of their coat, and yes, _yes_, they are happy.


End file.
